A therapist works inside a container.

The four office walls form the structure within which we listen, of which we ask. We
have been trained, licensed, hired, but we are just as flawed. Just as human.
Each hour starts very much the same, but the air still contains multitudes of shades. Of
identities. Of tears shed. Of understanding reached.

You might tell me about a family member who has died, or a close friend who is far
away.

You might share about the time you tried to end your life. You might whisper that
sometimes you still want to—a wish never before said aloud. The only proof is in the
form of scars on your wrists from the tougher nights and a razor blade.

I can see. I look without judgement.

You may realize for the very first time that the words you use to describe yourselves are
more punitive than the truth. You might learn that things you have done were not in the
right like you once believed.

Together, we will talk about forgiveness.

One day, we might broach a topic that brings you to tears.

I’ll point to the tissue box on the table beside you. If you apologize for crying, I’ll assure
you that it’s welcome. I may not tell you, but I, too, have my own box of tissues.

As it nears the time to leave, I will ask you about your plans.

What small kindness will you allow yourself between now and when you go to sleep?
How do you envision the time between now and when we reconvene?

I may ask you to notice something specific during your days: unfair expectations you
place on yourself, conclusions you may jump to.

If attainable, I’ll encourage you to find things that you are grateful for. Small threads on
which to pull. Tiny lights, even when it is dark.

We’ll agree on the next time to meet: the next time we will unseal the conversation. We
say our goodbyes.

We will both stand up from our seats. I’ll follow you back down the hallway. I will take a
deep breath, and I’ll fill my water bottle.

I will reach for the next container.